Once and Future
by Shanti Rosa
Summary: In the ancient land of Camelot, destiny was thwarted. In the year 2008, it gets its own back. Featuring reincarnation, evil cults, selective amnesia and a really awkward one-night stand. ArthurxMerlin, MorganaxGwen.
1. Chapter 1

It was a dull evening in London when a dark-haired woman collapsed on her journey home on the Underground. There was nothing graceful about it, and no warning either. One minute she was standing in the crowded carriage, staring glassy-eyed into space, and the next she was crumpling into a heap on the floor. Or, at least, as close to the floor as she could get. There were too many people around for her not to land against someone else's body, her legs and arms awkward and heavy. Someone gave a shriek of surprise – someone grabbed hold of her, murmuring, "Miss, are you alright?"

She heard. She couldn't answer. It sounded like every noise was coming through water. There were images flickering before her eyes, tugging out memories with fingers like claws. Her limbs burned. And she remembered a Court from long ago; a man she had hated and loved and also – also a child. There had been a child. And he had become a man and she had suffered, oh, she had –

She screamed.

There were people milling about, struggling to help her, their voices echoing in her ears. But it was the power she felt: the power uncoiling in her chest, stretching like a creature that had been locked away, weakened but not crippled. She knew it. She knew herself.

She knew Fate.

"_Emrys_," she choked out, throat sore with fury and exhalation. "_Pendragon._"

It was back. The magic was back.

xxx

The night was a disaster from the start.

Tom hadn't wanted to go out, but Win had insisted. She'd even come over to his flat to help him pick out something to wear. Not, as Win put it, because Tom had terrible dress sense (Tom did have terrible dress sense, but that was beside the point), but because she knew that even if he did decide to go out he would chicken out at the last minute and watch EastEnders reruns instead. It was her duty as his friend, she claimed, to make sure he had some sort of social life.

"What if I don't want one?" he asked. Win was currently rifling through his wardrobe to find something acceptable for him to wear in normal human interaction. Occasionally she'd make small sounds of disgust and throw a piece of clothing towards what she had dubbed the 'bag and burn' heap. "What if I'd rather just stay at home and be a sad bastard?"

"We can't all have what we want," she said sternly, and flung a shirt at his head. "Try that one on. It'll match the colour of your eyes."

He didn't understand why his shirt had to match his eyes. Looking at Win's stern little face with that silver piercing glinting menacingly above her eyebrow, he decided it was probably in his best interests not to bother asking.

"Um, yeah," he said. "It looks perfect."

Tom didn't know much about fashion; he knew just enough to be aware of that fact. Win, on the other hand, was a connoisseur of it. She'd already dressed up for the evening and her dress was skimpy little number that somehow looked just right on her. It swirled enticingly around her knees whenever she walked; her earrings glinted in the light.

Tom could appreciate her beauty. But they'd been friends too long for appreciation to ever become anything more than that. Besides, he was hardly worthy of Win. He was a constant fuckup, bouncing from job to job. He'd never had a steady home life or a steady education – his only success had been getting his own place. And Win was, well… just _Win_. Strong and brave and always willing to boss him around if he needed it. She was his rock.

Over the next hour Win managed to find him a pair of trousers, a pair of socks and even shoes that she deemed suitable. When she'd finished with his outfit she made him look in the mirror and examine himself. His black hair was as messy as ever. His face, with its high cheekbones and heavy jaw, looked just the same as it always did. He wasn't sure what the hell was meant to be different about him, but since Win looked pleased with herself he said, "It looks great, Win. All of it."

"I know," she said, satisfied. Peering around his shoulder she gave her straight black hair a self-conscious pat. "I think we're ready to go."

When she dragged him out the door he couldn't help but think longingly of those reruns. But of course there was no refusing Win.

They went to her favourite bar first, a little place where the shots were cheap – a fact Win was more than happy to take advantage of. By the time they left she had a flushed glow to her dark skin, and Tom was beginning to find that the sky began to swirl whenever he tilted his head. There was another bigger bar after that, and then another. By the time they reached the nightclub Tom had lost count and he couldn't feel the ground beneath his feet anymore.

The music was loud. It grated against his ears. There were people everywhere, packed so close together that he could feel faceless shoulders and elbows and hips bumping into him from all sides. _This_ was the reason he hadn't wanted to go out with Win. He couldn't stand to be in large crowds like this, surrounded but entirely ignored. It made something bitter rise in his throat and his heart.

Win was still next to him but her eyes were fixed on the dance floor. She loved dancing. He may have hated getting lost in the crowd, but Win adored it. She was at home there, among her people, belonging with them.

"M'going out," he slurred, touching his fingers to her bare arm. "Need some air."

"What?!" she yelled, turning towards him.

"I'm _going out_!" he repeated loudly, trying to be heard over the beat of the music; but he'd already lost his grip on Win in the crowd. The last glimpse he had of her was of her sinuous little body slipping further onto the dance floor, her arms upraised into the air… and then someone stepped in front of him and blocked his view.

Tom left. He stumbled out into the smoking area purely by chance – he'd actually been trying to find the loos. The smoking area was set outside of the building and surrounded by a thin wire mesh. A canopy covered half of it just in case there happened to be rain, but that night was clear and cloudless. There were a few people milling about, but it was empty enough to feel right.

Tom breathed a sigh of relief. He leaned back up against the fencing. The metal bit into his skin, but he didn't care. The shirt Win had chosen for him was thin enough to let the cold seep in and ease the heat he'd picked up in the nightclub. Tom closed his eyes and savoured the moment. Drunk. He was drunk. His head still felt light and disconnected. Even the bite of metal at his back was strangely pleasant.

"You don't look very well," a voice noted. It sounded amused.

Tom opened his eyes. A dark-haired man was standing next to him, holding a cigarette. At first Tom couldn't make out his face properly. He blinked a few times until it came into focus. There was something familiar about it, even if the dark hair and eyes seemed somehow jarring to Tom. They just. They just weren't _right._

"Sorry. I'm pissed," he confided, and the stranger laughed.

"I can tell," said the stranger gravely, his mouth still curved into a grin. "You're practically falling over."

He had a nice voice, Tom noted. It was low and warm with an accent that dripped money. It wasn't a voice that a person could forget easily. Which was why Tom felt compelled to blurt out, "Have we met before? Feels like I know you."

The man laughed again. The sense of déjà vu grew even stronger. Tom knew that laugh. He'd heard it somewhere before; somewhere a long, long time ago. He just couldn't place it right now.

"That's the worst line I've ever heard," said the stranger, lifting the cigarette to his mouth – that familiar mouth. "But I think I'll forgive you."

Tom felt himself blushing. "I…' he stammered, "I didn't mean – "

But he stopped abruptly when he felt the man's hand brushing Tom's hair gently back from his face. The man's fingers lingered for a moment, tracing the contours of his cheekbone and his jaw.

"It's alright," said the man. "I didn't mind."

Thomas Craig, socially inept fuckup, was being hit on by a man.

And worse still, he didn't mind at all.

Things were a blur after that. The man talked – and Tom remembered that he said something back, something that made the man's smile deepen and his blue (no, _brown_) eyes narrow. And then there was kissing: the press of the man's mouth against his, confident and ruthless; the man's hand tangled in Tom's short hair as Tom leaned into him drunkenly; the coarse feeling of stubble against his skin as his whole body grew hot again but in a good way, a better way.

The man pulled back long enough to whisper, "Shall we get out of here?"

Tom nodded wordlessly.

There was a car. He noticed that: the slick feeling of leather underneath his hands, the lights flashing through the tinted windows. There was an apartment after that – the man's, he assumed. He marveled over how big the stranger's apartment seemed compared to his. But he didn't think about it for long. His head still felt delightfully empty, and those hands were tangled in his hair again, tilting his head back to give that familiar mouth better access to his neck. And God, when had he learnt to be so _noisy_? He could hear himself moaning in small incoherent bursts, his fingers digging hard into the stranger's taut shoulders – which only made the other man nip hard at his skin, inducing another burst of mingled pleasure and pain. Tom bit down on his tongue at the feel of it. There was a taste of metal in his mouth, and his pulse was roaring in his ears.

He had no plans to be passive in all of this. He didn't know where the hell his own boldness had come from, but the next thing he knew he was the one guiding them both towards the bed. Tom felt the backs of his knees meet the edge of the mattress and pulled the stranger forward. Their legs tangled together almost naturally as they fell. Tom felt the man's hardness against his thigh and shuddered. Strange, to be wanted. He could get drunk off that feeling all over again.

Neither of them had any finesse. Their need made them clumsy. Their hands tangled in each other's shirt, fisting cloth into knots, tugging until something tore or gave way revealing skin hot all over with need and alcohol. Trousers were kicked off with difficulty. The man's hands were all over him, rough palms and gentle fingers that seemed to know exactly what Tom needed. They ground their hips together for the first time and Tom felt that awful need knot tighter inside him. Oh God he _needed_, he needed…

"Let me," he whispered, his hand tracing nonsensical patterns as it moved down the man's body. His thumb pressed into the sweat-slick hollow of one hipbone; his fingers fanned out and the man shivered. "Let me," he repeated.

Being in control was a heady experience. He moved on instinct, following the pattern his hands had made down the stranger's body with his tongue. He curved one hand tight around the man's cock, fisting it slowly – and when the man finally moaned, a harsh sound that seemed to wrench its way from his throat, Tom thought he'd come right then and there just at the look on the man's face.

_Let me_, he thought again, but didn't say it. He pressed his mouth to the stranger's cock and felt the shudder run through him like electricity through a live wire. His tongue laved broad, clumsy strokes up and down the man's hardness. His dizzy senses tasted salt and skin; felt smooth sheets and warm, muscled limbs. The man was murmuring something he couldn't make out, pleading, hissing.

The man drew him back with a sudden, insistent tug at his shoulders and slammed their mouths – and their hips – together. He could taste tobacco on the man's tongue. His body ached all over with the need for completion. Both their bodies did. His hands clutched at soft dark hair that still didn't look right but it was okay because it felt right, this felt like something he'd been waiting for forever, for his whole life.

They came together. Their hips arched; they muffled their groans against each other's mouths. Tom felt their breath mingle; felt every inch of his body burn with pleasure. There was a pain of whiteness behind the suddenly closed lids of his eyes that rose like a tide and then ebbed, little by little. His head was still swimming but his skin felt alive, humming with energy.

The man's fingers were gently tracing his spine. His brown eyes were heavy-lidded.

"Feels nice," the man murmured, even though they both knew they probably weren't going to feel nice for much longer. Their sweat was already cooling, the pleasure-rush fading out. But Tom nodded, because it was, it had been. In a pitiful way, this was the best night of his life.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah."

xxx

He must have fallen asleep, because the next time Tom opened his eyes there was a weak spill of light coming in through the window and he was suffering from the beginnings of a headache. He didn't know how long he'd slept for. He would have checked his watch but he'd dropped it somewhere earlier and didn't know how to go about searching for it now. The room was absolutely huge, with large windows and tasteful black and white photographs on the opposite wall. Remembering where he was – and just how he'd ended up there – Tom turned to look at the man beside him, heart in his throat.

The man was also awake and sitting up with his head clutched in his hands. He gave Tom a single glance – long enough for Tom to make out his bloodshot eyes and the bags beneath them – before looking away again. Tom realised that the stranger must have been drunk too; more drunk than Tom had been able to realise at the time. They'd both been off their heads and now they were lying in bed together. And they'd fucked.

And, well. Shit.

"You're awake," the man noted.

"I…"

"I shouldn't have done that," the stranger said flatly, interrupting him. He wasn't looking at Tom anymore. "I'm going to sleep the worst of this off and then I'm going to forget this ever happened. I suggest you do the same." A pause. "At wherever you live," the man added.

It was dismissal. Tom knew one of those when he heard one.

If he'd been a bloke with a bit of spine he may have said something to that. But right at that moment his head hurt, he was sore all over, his throat felt very dry and he'd never done anything like this before in his life and he didn't know what the fuck to do about it. Any of it. So he simply nodded, swallowing hard and said, "Right. Okay." Pause. "I'll be off then."

The man didn't even bother to respond.

It took an embarrassingly long time for Tom to pick his clothes off the floor and pull them on. Even then there were problems. His shirt was ripped and missing a few buttons, and he seriously couldn't find his watch anywhere. Deciding he could live without it he shuffled towards the hall, only looking back at the man once. He still had his head in his hands. He wasn't looking up.

Tom left through the front door. Took the lift down and stepped out onto the street. It was only then that he allowed the reality of the situation to kick in. He had no idea where he was, very little money on him, and he'd just had drunken sex with a man whose name he still didn't know. A man he didn't know anything about at all.

A real disaster, this was.

He decided to just walk. Maybe even try and find a bus stop or a train station so he could figure out his way home. There had to be one around here someplace. He cringed inwardly at the thought of what people would think of his appearance. His clothes were a mess and he could feel a myriad of aches and bruises flare up whenever he moved. When he traced his lips lightly with his tongue he felt out a cut deep enough to make him wince.

He wondered what the hell was going to tell Win about all this. He'd left her last night without any warning at all, and she was most likely worried sick by now. Could he really say, 'Sorry I abandoned you in a club, I was shagging some guy I didn't even know?' That would be so _embarrassing_.

She'd probably like that excuse, actually.

It couldn't be that late – or that early – yet. The light was so weak that the street lamps were still glowing. The air was very cold. Tom shivered and wrapped his arms around himself, taking in his surroundings. Whoever the stranger had been, he certainly lived in one of the nicer parts of London. The pavements were clean and neatly kept, the apartments large, spaced wide with greenery for decoration. Tom couldn't help but compare it to his own area, where the apartments were crammed so close together that there was barely breathing space.

Lucky stranger.

There was a gust of icy wind. Tom swore under his breath. His hair whipped into his eyes. As he lifted a hand to push it out of his face he felt – something – take hold of his palm. Fingers, so cold they felt frozen, moved lower to curve around his wrist. He lifted his gaze and came face to face with a woman. She was wearing a jacket and her brown hair was pinned neatly up at the back of her head. Her eyes on him were taking in his appearance carefully, and her expression was serene.

He gave a small start. He hadn't seen anyone approach.

"God, sorry," he said with a sheepish grin. "You startled me. I didn't mean to jump like that."

"It's quite alright," she said politely. "We all make mistakes."

Then she slammed him to the floor.

There was a dull crack as his head hit tarmac – he saw stars explode in front of his eyes. The woman had her hand securely fastened around his neck and her skin was so cold it burned. As if the cold was coming straight out of her and into him. He tried to struggle, his body fighting to writhe out of her grip. But she clenched her hand tighter, so tight that his vision began to blacken and his chest became an agony of needing to breathe, to breathe to breathe. Maybe it was the asphyxiation that made everything change – it _had_ to have been – but he could swear that her skin had grown as pale as snow, and that her hand around his neck had small claws of ice.

"Mortal," hissed the woman-creature, its cold lips fluttering against his jaw. "My mistress wishes to know where the Pendragon is. Will you tell me now, before I have to hurt you?" She punctuated her point with another tight squeeze of her white hand around his neck.

"I – " Gasping. Choking. "Don't – know – "

He 'd meant to say 'I don't know what the hell you're talking about', but the creature apparently didn't understand strangulation-speech. She tightened her grip and leaned in, the whites of her eyes flaring blue.

"We know he is back. We _know_. My mistress feels the magic. My mistress made me. I should not be able to exist, boy," she whispered, her breath skittering over his skin like frostbite. "But here I am. Tell me where he is, sorcerer. _Tell me where he is_!"

He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe and there was a layer of ice forming over his neck and his chest. He couldn't breathe and this woman or creature or whatever she was wanted to kill him. Was going to kill him. There was no one else around to save him, and he was a dead man.

Now was just about the right time for his whole life to flash before his eyes. He realised with a vague pang that it hadn't been much of a life. He thought of his parents – the father he'd hardly known, the mother who couldn't get rid of him fast enough – and how little he really felt about them even now. He thought of Win, the best friend he'd ever had. He thought of all the dreams he'd never had and the things he'd never done.

Everything was going dark.

In the sweet silence of his mind a memory began to bloom. It was so clear that he found himself amazed at the fact that he'd ever forgotten it. In his memory the sun was shining and he was walking alongside a fair-haired man dressed in very old-fashioned clothing. It was a hot day. Tom was carrying some kind of pack and he was whistling. He was stronger in the memory. The weight didn't bother him at all. But more than that he was stupidly, ridiculously happy. Tom couldn't imagine being that content. He felt a wide grin split his face as the man next to him gave him a long, narrow-eyed look of displeasure. Then the fair-haired man gave an exaggerated sigh and rolled his eyes, drawling, "Sometimes I just don't know what's wrong with you, Merlin."

"Sometimes I don't know what's wrong with me either, sire." Tom replied. But he wasn't Tom. He was –

_Merlin._

For the first time in Tom's life something clicked into place inside his head, like the last missing piece of a puzzle, the key to a lock. His soul threw open its doors in an outpouring of sensation and colour and memory, reminding him of things he should never have forgotten, things that had always been in the most secret part of him, hidden away like treasures. He sucked in raw, cold breath despite the restriction of the creature's hand. He breathed and struggled through the weight of the thoughts rushing into his head. His hands shuddered at his sides. And he knew himself. He _knew_ himself.

"_No_," he rasped. Through a layer of ice, his eyes flared gold.

The woman flew through the air, flung with invisible force. Her head hit the ground with an audible splintering of bone but there was no blood – just a pool of what looked like crumbled ice spilling across the floor. Her face was a mask of surprise. She wasn't moving anymore.

"Fuck," said Merlin. And then because he realised that 'fuck' was a word Merlin, citizen of Camelot, would not have known, he said it again: "FUCK."

He rolled onto his side on the cold tarmac, clutching his aching chest. Slivers of ice flaked off his face as he grimaced. His head was a blinding ball of pain, thick with memories. He hardly knew himself anymore. A second ago he'd been nothing but Tom. And now…

Now he knew he was a man who, by all logic, should be dead. A warlock from another age.

Scrambling dazedly to his feet and looking down at the slow melting ice-corpse across from him, Merlin couldn't even bring himself to swear once more. The world was spinning, his stomach lurching with nausea. He clenched his eyes shut and breathed in deep through his nose. A part of him that was still home-loving, socially awkward Tom wanted him to run straight home and hide for the next decade, if possible. But his memories were awakened now, cemented back into place inside his mind, and the bigger part of him that was Merlin didn't want to do that yet.

He had a job to finish first.

Moving to kneel by the body, touching the tips of his fingers to the cracked face. He stared down at it fixedly, feeling the magic rise up in him.

"_Amyltan_," he intoned.

He wasn't sure… well. It was the first time in this lifetime that he'd used his magic purposefully, with the correct words and intent. But his fears were entirely unfounded. The spell worked immediately. Before his eyes the body melted away into a pool of dark water, steam rising in the cold air. Merlin drew back his hand with a shudder and stood up. He felt very dizzy. The street looked like just a normal street now. No one had been around to see what had happened – at least, Merlin hadn't _seen_ anyone.

He was exhausted. It was too much of an effort to be strong anymore. He began to walk onward, the ground soft and unreal beneath his feet.

Home. He needed to get home.

xxx

It was well into the morning when Merlin arrived at the flat. There were still clothes scattered all over the floor of the bedroom. He ignored them and collapsed onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling. Unblinking.

This wasn't his flat. It was Thomas Craig's flat. When he'd been standing over the body of that creature – whatever it had been – he'd felt as if he were torn between being Tom and being Merlin. Now Tom's memories were hazy. He had to struggle to catch hold of them properly. They were like a story he'd heard somewhere and never quite forgotten. Although the details were correct, the real experience of each moment, filled with emotion and sensation, was gone. Leeched away.

But knew he was still himself. Merlin.

Merlin sat up. The rumpled sheets made his memories flash back to his – no, _Tom's_ - ill-advised one-night stand, and felt a wave of nausea come over him. He tamped it down.

Well, at least his hangover had survived. That was something.

That act of anonymous sex, all drunken desperation and blind, loving hands had been something he never would have considered, before, in Camelot. But Tom had been so hungry for affection, for any kind of love he could get. Merlin had never doubted that he was loved. His mother had loved him, and Gaius had loved him, and there had always been people who were there for him: Gwen with her smiles, and Arthur with his imperiousness and half-grins. And Tom… Tom had had none of that. Tom hadn't know that he was special.

Merlin didn't know how long he sat there staring down at his hands, wondering. There were so many things he _didn't_ know, like how he'd come to live in this day and age, and how he'd reborn, and most importantly of all, what the hell had happened to everyone he'd once known and loved. He tried to imagine a world without Gwen or Gaius or – Arthur. Then he realised that he didn't have to imagine. It looked like he was living in one.

When the phone began to ring he answered it with relief. Anything was better than thinking.

"H-hello?"

"TOM!" came the shriek down the phone. Merlin winced and held the receiver at arms length. "WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN? I'VE BEEN WORRIED SICK – "

"WIN," he shouted in return. When the line went silent he took a deep breath and placed the receiver back against his ear. Win. Tom's friend. _Win_. "I'm really sorry," he said earnestly, because he was really sorry, and damn ashamed too. What had he been _thinking_? "I – I just got back." A pause. "It won't happen again," he blurted out, and wondered which bit he'd meant: the sex, the fight with the ice-woman, or simply being Tom?

He didn't know. Not really.

There was silence for a moment. Then Win sighed, her breath a brush of static across the line. "You silly boy," she said, not without affection. "Come and meet me for coffee, okay? The usual place. You can tell me what happened and _then_ I can tell you off properly."

"I – "

But Win had put the phone down. Fair enough. It wasn't as if Tom had ever known how to refuse her. Merlin wasn't going to start now.

He thought about getting up. He thought about having a shower and sorting out his clothes, and doing all the sort of things Tom would once have done. He thought, and for a long time he just stared at the opposite wall and the pile of clothes on the floor, and tried once again in vain to make sense of what the hell had just happened to his life. Of what he'd lost.

_Gwen. Morgana. Gaius. Arthur. Camelot._

"Where are you all?" he asked the air (head pounding, eyes aching; so near tears). "Where _are you_?"

There was, of course, no answer.


	2. Chapter 2

One hour and three coffees later, Win finally came to the conclusion that when she'd told Tom to come meet her for coffee she should have specified 'right _now_, you lazy bastard'.

For what felt like the millionth time Win looked down at her watch, sighed, and took another swig of her drink. It burned her throat. The caffeine high she was riding on combined with the after-effects of last night's drinking had her buzzed and impatient. She strummed her fingers against the metal tabletop and stared fixedly at the door of the café, willing it to open up and reveal Tom in all his mussed and puppy-eyed glory. Of course the door stayed shut. Knowing her luck he'd make her wait for another hour before he deigned to show his face.

Maybe he wasn't coming after all.

Hell, since he'd _abandoned_ her last night he should have been running over to grovel for her forgiveness. Not that she'd felt very abandoned at the time. There had been a few nice blokes who were more than happy to buy her drinks and keep her company on the dance floor – only keep her company, mind. Still, it was the principal of thing. He was her best friend. She knew him better than anyone else in the world, and it wasn't like him to just run off. She'd literally spent hours trying to find him after the club had closed and she'd realised he was gone. And she was never, ever going to let him know how relieved she'd been when he'd picked up his phone, sounding tired and wrung out but still _alive_ and not, well, dead in a gutter somewhere or something equally horrible. Of course she'd known it was unlikely that he was in any trouble – Tom wasn't the kind – but fear didn't care much for logic.

Stupid Tom. He owed her. And she was really, really going to have to force him to get a mobile. He was always so careful about spending money – she'd noticed yesterday evening that even his best clothes were a little worn out and overused. Her heart gave a little pang as she thought back, fingers tracing the rim of the cup gently. _I wish I could do more for you,_ she thought wistfully. _I wish you could know how much you matter._

"How 'bout some breakfast?" piped up the waitress from behind the counter. Half her face was hidden behind her copy of _Heat_ magazine, but the eyes that peeked up above the cover were hopeful.

Win was one of only two patrons in the café, and the only one who'd bought anything more than a single drink. She and Tom had always liked this café precisely because it was always so empty, which made it a great place to sit and chat. On the down side, the food it provided always had an unfortunate resemblance to road kill.

"No thanks," Win said, then looked down at her cup. It was almost empty. "Another one of these would be good, though."

"'Course," said the girl, and dumped her magazine down onto the counter.

By the time Win had almost finished her fourth cup Tom finally stumbled in, shoulders slumped and his hair alarmingly fluffed. He looked like an angry duckling. Win heaved a sigh of relief and leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms with a narrow-eyed look of displeasure plastered over her face. "And where have _you_ been, huh?"

"Hi Win," Tom said faintly, his face hoarse. He pulled out a chair, not looking at her. "I'm sorry. Didn't mean to be late."

Win wasn't the sort of girl to let anything stand in the way of her goals. When her mother had dealt her an unfortunate name – in honour of one of her crabby grandmothers – Winifred had made the best of a bad hand and shortened her name to Win. When she'd failed her A-levels she hadn't let herself despair, and now she had a steady job and didn't have to rely on anybody but herself. No, nothing ever stood in Win's way. But when Tom slumped into his chair looking for all the world like he'd been run over by an emotional bulldozer, even Win had to take pity on him. Questions about his sudden disappearance last night would have to wait until later. Right now he clearly needed comfort, and Win was the only one around the provide it.

"You look like shit," she said, expression softening. She unfolded her arms. "Want me to buy your drink for you?"

He forced out a laugh. "S'okay. I can pay for myself."

"I know." Win shrugged. "So?"

He smiled at her, his eyes not quite meeting her own. There was a distant look on his face and… was that a bruise on his cheek? Win bit down on her tongue. Tightened her hands to fists. Now wasn't the time to mention it. Later, maybe. Later.

"I don't about you," she said, "but I'm fucking _starving_. We can't eat here obviously, but do you want to come over to my place after? I make a mean bacon sandwich. I know you haven't got anything to eat at your place. I looked in your fridge when I came over, it was a bloody _mess_. I swear your milk was trying to crawl out and attack me, it was so mouldy. How the hell aren't you a skeleton anyway, Tommy?"

If this had been a normal day Tom would have given her a proper look and one his real, tentative smiles. He would have teased her gently, because when she was worried for him she always gave herself away by rambling incessantly until he finally took pity on her and intervened. And then he would have told her he was fine, and that she worried too much – and then they could have gone back to normal and everything would have been just dandy.

But everything wasn't fine. Tom gave her a blank stare. He said, "Why can't we eat here?"

"Um," said Win. Was he teasing her? Had he knocked his head last night? "_Earth_ to _Tom_. This place is a hole. Last time we tried something here you were puking for days."

"Right." He closed his eyes briefly; his forehead creased with weariness. "Right. I knew that."

An awkward silence followed. Win began reaching for his hand and then, thinking better of it, drew back her own hand and stood up. She shrugged on her jacket and pushed her straight dark hair back from her face with one hand. "C'mon," she said. "Let's get you back to bed. You're not fit to be out."

He tilted his head so he could look at her face. He murmured, "I'm okay, Win. I'm sorry I'm so – "

"You don't have to be sorry!" she snapped. "At least not right now. Save that for when you're not acting like a zombie, okay?" There were so many things she couldn't say to him like, _I haven't seen you this bad since we were kids and your mum hit you so hard you had a bruise and I never – I never told anyone that you cried._ Their relationship wasn't like that. Tom wouldn't want her pity. They were _friends_. "Let's go to your flat." Her voice softened, cajoling. "I'll order some pizza or something. Make you some coffee."

Tom continued to look at her. Then he straightened up. Nodded. "Win," he said slowly. "I'm still sorry. That I'm not being myself." He stood up. Looked away. "I'm sorry," he said again.

"I told you not to say that," she muttered, but she didn't continue to push the point. Tom would explain himself in his own time. Or so she hoped. Hell, if he could trust anyone to listen to him, it was her.

The waitress gave them a disappointed look as they pushed in their chairs and moved to leave the café, but Win put that down to the fact that the girl was probably hoping to foist a few more drinks on them before they scarpered. Their shoulders – Win's and Tom's - bumped together as they stepped out of the door; Win blinked, eyes adjusting to the gleaming light of morning. The cold of outdoors was a shock. She shivered a little, pulling her jacket tighter around her.

They kept walking. It was late morning now, and the streets were crowded with people. Luckily it was a weekend, so there was none of the usual rush hour bustle of people travelling to and fro from work. Despite all the noise around them Tom was silent. Win, of course, couldn't manage to keep her mouth shut.

"I can't wait for summer," she said, lightly, hoping it would break up some of the gloom of Tom's mood. No such luck. "Might even go on holiday this year even though I bet I won't be able to afford it. You know, it always goes like that. I…"

She trailed off, noting with a sudden, sick thud of her heart in her chest that Tom had gone very, very still and very pale. Someone jostled past him; she saw he was shivering. "Tom?"

"I thought I saw something," he said in a whisper. Then, urgently: "Win, we need to get away from here. Right now." He gripped her sleeve, so tight that his knuckles were going white around the bone.

"I – "

"Do you trust me?" he asked. And for the first time that morning he looked at her, not with vague dull eyes but really _looked_ at her as if he knew who she was and how much she mattered. "Win," he pressed. "_Do you_?"

"Duh," she choked out. "But Tom, I'm sorry, you're acting like a nutter. Let go of me, okay?"

"Win, _please_."

"Let go," she said again – insisted even – and gave the wrist he was holding a sharp tug.

That was when his skin touched hers.

It was barely a touch. Barely her sleeve crumpling, barely a hint of her wrist meeting the crease between his thumb and forefinger. But it was enough. For a moment the world seemed to stop. Her breath froze in her throat.

(_She remembered - _)

She remembered a woman. There was a sunlit day, her feet crushing fragrant grass, and the woman – the woman rolling her eyes, gesturing towards – somebody – in front of them both, saying, "Those boys, they'll never say a civil word to each other." She remembered saying something in return, a smile framing her words and then there was the woman's smile in return. And the woman said, "You don't have to defend him Gwe – "

_Guinevere._

A hundred flickering images cut off the memory, twisting everything about in her mind until her thoughts were lurching like a circus ride and she couldn't hold on, couldn't hold on. She felt someone gripping her arms, someone repeating her (new, wrong) name urgently. But she couldn't respond.

"Win!"

Her limbs folded softly as she slipped into unconsciousness.

xxx

Win collapsed against him, her body a dead weight. Cursing, Merlin tried to stop his knees from buckling and held onto her tighter to stop her from slipping from his arms. Her head drooped forward to press against his chest, the short curls at her forehead tickling his skin. He didn't look down at her. His gaze darted around as he tried to find the figure that had so alarmed him: the figure of a very normal looking woman, plainly dressed with her hair pinned up from her face. The figure of the woman – the creature - that had attacked him last night.

_I killed it,_ he thought frantically, holding Win closer. _I know I did._ The image of her body sprawled across the floor with ice spilling from her cracked skull was still burnt into his brain. He'd melted her body away, destroying the evidence of her existence entirely. And yet, just a second ago…

He'd seen her. He was sure of it.

There were too many people around to make the creature out anymore, a sea of blank and uninterested faces. None of them even bothered to pay a glance to the sight of Merlin with Win's obviously unconscious body propped against him. Merlin was suddenly very, very thankful for the blasé attitude of most Londoners. He was less thankful for the fact that the creature had vanished entirely. For all he knew she was walking up to him right now.

Had she done this to Win? He looked down at Win again. Her eyes were closed, lashes a brush of dark against her tanned skin. He could tell that her mouth was slack and slightly parted. With her cheek pressed against his chest it was difficult for him to make out her expression, but he was very sure that she was unconscious and not, well, dead. He could still feel her breathing.

If that creature really had done this to her then he needed to get Win away, and fast. Maybe when he got back to his apartment he'd be able to help her, but right here, out in the open and surrounded by people, he was helpless. He couldn't just start using magic in a public place. Even though Camelot was long gone, some lessons were too ingrained and too sensible to let go off. Falling back on old instincts Merlin straightened up as best as he could and tried to calm his fast-paced heartbeat. His hands clenched tight at Win's jacket. He tried to move and found himself staggering. For all that she was a small girl, Win was bloody heavy.

"Win," he hissed. "You need to wake up."

Nothing.

"_Win._"

He couldn't just stand here forever. Deciding a little magic was worth the risk, Merlin lowered his head, his forehead pressed to Win's dark hair to hide his eyes. His blood was roaring in his ears. Eyes flaring, he leaned some of Win's weight into his power, lifting her a little from the ground and giving her an artificial lightness. He didn't bother to whisper a spell. There was no point.

He began to walk backwards – slowly. He bumped into someone, felt their shoulder against his back; he mumbled an apology. The creature – was she still around, somewhere? Was she coming towards them? Had he just imagined it? Had he –

The sensation of Win shifting in his grip instantly derailed his thoughts. He felt the rhythm of her breath change as she lifted her head and something tense and knotted inside him eased. She was okay. She was okay. When he felt the tip of her shoe scuff his leg he released the spell, his hands still fisted in her jacket.

"Win?" he questioned, hesitant. "Are you…?"

"I…" Like him, she trailed off. He still couldn't see her eyes. She reached up. Her fingertips brushed his sleeve. "Merlin?" she asked in a small voice.

Maybe it was the way she was speaking. Her voice was the same as Win's, but the inflection was totally different: the tone was too soft, and hesitant in a way that Win would never have allowed hers to be. She looked up at him. He stared down at her, breath catching in his throat. Underneath the sleek hair and the make-up was a face that was familiar to Merlin, not Tom. How had he not seen it before?

Maybe, just maybe, he was more of an idiot than he thought he was.

"Gwen," he said, caught between joy and sadness. He settled on the latter. "Gwen, I'm… I'm sorry."

"I told you not to say that anymore," she said, eyes searching his face; her own was all pale with surprise, and confusion. And he couldn't help it: he tightened his arms around her, drawing her into a bone-crushing hug. She squeaked and hit his arm. He wasn't _alone_. Thank God he wasn't alone anymore. "What… what are we doing here?" Gwen asked breathlessly.

"Uh," he said. Paused. "I think we're meant to be running."

"What?"

"I'll explain later!" He pulled back and took hold of her wrist. "C'mon."

This time she didn't argue.

xxx

They got back to his flat safely. Merlin had no idea if they'd been followed – and he knew he should have checked, but it wasn't as if Gaius was around to tell him off for being careless, or as if anyone would mind if he was careless anymore. Besides, Win – _Gwen_ - looked like she was ready to keel over. Her skin was wan and she was shaking continuously, one hand pressed to his arm the whole way home. He ushered her quickly into the flat and onto the sofa, dithering for a second before deciding it probably wouldn't be a good idea to offer her a drink.

For a long time she didn't pay him any attention at all. The look on her face reminded him of how he'd felt when his old memories had awakened last night: confused, anxious, afraid and most of all _alone_. As selfish as it was, Merlin couldn't help but feel relieved that Gwen was here along with him, experiencing the same turmoil he had. He'd been so afraid that he was alone in this new world.

Eventually Gwen looked up at him and managed a weak smile. It faded quickly.

"I bet I look worse than you do now," she sighed, pressing her face into her hands.

"Thanks," he said dryly.

"What? No!" She lifted her head, eyes wide. "I didn't mean – really, you look just _fine_ - well, fine for someone who hasn't slept, I mean…" Giving a frustrated groan, she buried her face in her hands again. "I give up."

Merlin felt a grin tugging at his lips. "You told me earlier that I look like shit."

"Well, I'm not saying anything now. And I didn't say that, really. That was me as Win and I'm, I'm not…" She shook her head. "I can't even make sense out of this," Gwen said, dazed. "It's like I'm two people at once."

"That feeling won't last," Merlin said. He moved to sit beside her, propping elbows on his knees and his chin on his hands. From between her fanned out fingers he could make out that her forehead was creased into a frown and her mascara was a little smeared. "Believe me, I know."

Gwen lowered her hands. "When you touched me it did something to me. I can't even explain it," she whispered. "It was as if I… I knew myself. For the first time. As if my whole life before this didn't matter anymore and I'd just been _waiting_. You woke that up in me."

"I don't know why it was like that. It wasn't that way for me. What I mean," he amended. "Was that no one made me remember. I just did." He intertwined his fingers, suddenly uncomfortable. There was a long silence.

"Tell me," Gwen said. "Tell me how it happened."

Merlin thought for a moment, trying to ignore the (very obvious) blush creeping up his neck. He didn't want to tell Gwen about the man. That was still too embarrassing; too embarrassing and too secret. So he kept the details sparse and prayed that his pale skin wasn't giving him away. Win had used to laugh at the way he'd flush at the littlest thing. _You're too easy to read_, she'd teased.

"I was walking back home when something, something that looked like a woman, attacked me. It was some kind of magical _thing_ and it kept asking me for the Pendragon. When it tried to hurt me I just… remembered." He shrugged tightly. "I thought I saw her today, just before you fainted. That was why we had to run."

Gwen swore – colourfully because she did, after all, have Win's memories. She squeezed his arm. "How did you get away from her the first time?" she asked. "Fuck, do you think she'll come here?"

All sorts of lies popped into his head and he opened his mouth, ready to slide one easily off his tongue. _I ran away really, really fast. I don't think she saw where we were going. She just left me. Didn't think I was worth the trouble of hurting properly._ The words died before he'd even spoken them.

This wasn't Camelot and Gwen… Gwen deserved better than that. Merlin didn't try to resist the impulse to speak. He was so lonely and there was no one – no Gaius, no Dragon, no Arthur with his sneers or Morgana with their shared unspoken secret. Nothing. And there was nothing to lose.

Except Gwen's trust, of course. But he tried not to think about that.

"I'm a sorcerer, Gwen," he said softly. "Trust me. I can take care of both of us."

Silence.

"Gwen, I…"

"If you even think of saying you're sorry, I swear I'll hit you," said Gwen.

"I – "

"_Don't._" She clenched her hands together in her lap, looking at him with a kind of fierce hurt in her eyes. "You could have trusted me, Merlin. We were friends."

"That's why I didn't tell you," he said, willing her to understand. "Gwen, Uther was killing so many people. I couldn't risk you. I couldn't be the reason anything happened. You would have done that same thing."

Gwen looked away. He knew, without having to ask her, that she was thinking of her father. Jaw tense, she reached for his hand and took it in her own. Her fingers were smooth, with chipped polish on the fingernails. He laced his fingers with hers. It felt a lot like forgiveness.

"I think I should stay here tonight. I'm not going home alone when there's a magical monster on the loose. God knows what could happen, right?" She tried to couch her words as a joke, but it fell flat. There was too much truth in it.

He squeezed her hand.

"I'll protect you," he promised. "I used to protect Arthur all the time."

Gwen laughed. "You miss him, don't you?" she asked.

Merlin smiled wistfully. "Yeah. And from what the creature said about the Pendragon, I think he might be in trouble again. Wherever he is."

"We'll find him," Gwen said, with such total conviction that he almost believed her. But what were the odds of that happening?

As they stood up from the couch, Merlin gave Gwen's face a longer, more attentive look. With her straightened hair, her piercings and her heavy makeup Win had looked like a totally different person from Gwen. But it had been more than that. Until that moment on the street he hadn't recognised her, and he should have been able to – her facial structure and her eyes and everything were still identical to those of the old Gwen, Gwen from Camelot.

"I should have recognised you before," he said, unable to hide the confusion in his voice. "I don't know how I didn't."

Gwen smiled. Shrugged.

"Magic, I guess," she said. "C'mon, I'm going to try and find some real food in your kitchen. And throw out your milk."

xxx

Around one a.m. it began to rain. The woman standing outside the apartment block where Merlin lived carefully did up her coat, one button at a time. Then she pulled her hood up. There was a rain puddle forming around her feet but she paid it no attention and simply continued to stand as she had stood all night, staring up at the window of the apartment of her prey. She did not feel the cold or the biting wind. She was in her element.

The creature did not have an independent, mortal mind. Its thoughts were limited. But it was a creature of magic, and it could see and smell magic everywhere in the air. The ground shimmered with it. The window of the flat of the Emrys was like a beacon in the dark, drawing the creature's eyes towards it time and time again. The Emrys was bleeding magic. He bled it like pheromones and air, like the desert bled dust. She had been surprised when he had sensed her earlier that day on the street. She had thought that her magic would be below his interest. But the Emrys was ignorant of his true power, and that ignorance made him weak. Or so her mistress said.

He was sleeping. The lights were off, which signified human rest. In sleep he was vulnerable. His companion had no magic. It would be easy, so easy to slip into his home and cut out his eyes so he could not harm her; so easy to threaten the mortal companion until he gave her the Pendragon. _That_ would please her mistress.

But no. She would not attack him outright. Not tonight. Her mistress wanted no more mistakes – one was enough, and all her mistress could afford.

The creature lowered her head and stared at the gold glow of power in the water. It reflected back into her eyes. There was still a long vigil ahead.

Emrys would lead them to the Pendragon eventually. It was just a matter of time.


	3. Chapter 3

A woman woke up alone in her bed, grasping at the air with trembling hands. Her heart was thumping harshly in her chest and her skin was drenched in terror-sweat. She didn't scream, but only because she was biting too hard on her tongue for any sound to slip out. Her mouth felt bloody, and it ached. The air around her swam with static and dim light. She couldn't remember what she'd been reaching out for in her dreams, and wasn't sure she wanted to remember.

Her stomach was heaving and she thought she was going to vomit, but when she stood up the wave of nausea passed. It left her light-headed; too tired to sleep, but just awake enough for the panic nestled under her breastbone to flare up again.

_I'm going mad. It's finally happening. I'm crazy._

The edges of her vision flickered. She stumbled out into the hallway, groping for the light switch. Her fingers found it; she flicked it on, and before her eyes had even begun adjusting to the change she was making her way to the living room, feet scraping over the cold wooden floor. She needed her phone. She needed to call someone before she fell apart at the edges, before she fell over and cracked her head open or the hallucinations came back again or—or something. Something terrible.

There was a darkness coming. She could feel it.

Her mobile phone was on the edge of the dining table where she'd left it last night, along with her wallet and her keys. Sitting down with her elbows on the table, she picked up the phone and pressed the cool plastic hard to her cheek, until she could feel its indentations in her flesh. Her hands still smelt like the underground: of oil and human sweat.

The woman didn't know who to call. She sat frozen for a while, then struggled to make her fingers move.

There were three voice messages. One from Shannon from work. Anxious. "_We heard about your accident on the train. The bitch keeps complaining, but don't come back till you're well, okay? Phone me when you get this._" The second message was from the bitch—otherwise known as the woman's boss, and the woman deleted it without listening to it. The third message…

The third message was a hiss of static that made images flicker before the woman's eyes. The third message was someone's soft breathing, and a calm voice that sparked memories inside her.

"_I can still help. You know where to find me._"

The message ended.

* * *

  
Two days later, still holed up in the flat without a clue of how he and Gwen were going to find Arthur _or_ how they were going to avoid whoever—or whatever—had tried to threaten Merlin into revealing Arthur's whereabouts, and Merlin was ready to claw at the walls with frustration. He spent the first few grey hours of the morning pacing up and down the (small) main room, his head ringing with memories and fear.

Gwen watched him. She was perched on the sofa, dressed in one of his shirts with her hair pinned back with a make-shift bandana fashioned from one of his ties. The leftovers of last night's Chinese take-out were in a carton balanced precariously on her lap. She was making a good show of being totally unimpressed by his anxiety, but the way she was careful to take bites of food at measured intervals gave away her apparent nonchalance for what it really was—a sham.

Merlin couldn't calm down. He wished he could just be Tom again and have total faith in his Win's ability to fix any and every situation, but Gwen wasn't much like Win anymore and he wasn't—couldn't be--Tom. He kept pacing.

"If you keep that up, you'll wear out the carpet," Gwen said. Took a bite of her noodles.

"Carpet's crap anyway," he said with despair. "This whole _flat_ is crap. I swear, it looks like the bathroom ceiling is going to cave in any day now. Did you see the cracks in it?"

"I told you there was something wrong with it months ago," Gwen said, exasperated, and the two of them had to pause mid-breath, blinking back the disorientation of memories that didn't fit right anymore.

"Right," Merlin said finally. "You--_Win_--did that."

"Right," echoed Gwen; took a determined bite of the sweet and sour chicken.

Merlin took a deep breath, and kept pacing.

"What I mean is, Camelot was protected. There were knights. Walls. _Guards_." He ran a hand through his hair, grimacing. "Best we can hope for is that if someone breaks in that the bathroom will try and fall on 'em."

"Well, that certainly makes me feel safe," Gwen murmured mildly, but Merlin barreled on without paying her comment a blind bit of attention.

"I'm going to have to find a way to protect this place," he said, trying to sound decisive. He was pretty sure he was failing. "And, and _you_ of course. I promise."

He sifted through old memories of spells; wondered if marking protective sigils into the doors and floor would serve to keep danger out. He wondered, too, if he really remembered enough to create sigils without botching them up somehow. He doubted it.

Gwen was watching him, expression soft.

"I trust you," Gwen said gently.

That was the problem, realised Merlin. That Gwen believed in him even though he'd lied to her for years and years (well, years ago); that he was afraid that there was too much of Tom in him now, too many broken and used up pieces of a weaker man for him to do what was necessary to keep Gwen out of harm's way. The problem was that Merlin couldn't trust _himself_, and that uncertainty was heavy and awful and terrifying.

He needed to do things right.

"I'll try and put a spell of protection around the flat. And around yours too. I used to have a book full of incantations that would've helped but… but it's probably dust now." _Gaius_, he thought inexplicably, and a lump of grief rose in his throat. He swallowed it back. "But I can improvise. I'm good at that." A weak grin. "You just wait and see, Gwen."

He gave Gwen a pleading look, all big-eyed and earnest and _just nod your head and agree with me, oh please._ Gwen stared at him, eyes liquid dark. She nodded. Then she shuffled over on the couch, the shirt crumpling up to reveal even more bare thigh, and patted the seat of the sofa with one hand. She kept her grip on the take-out container with the other.

"Come sit by me."

"Gwen—"

"_Merlin_," she said, voice somewhere between order and a plea. And Merlin did.

She put the container on his lap and gestured at it. "You didn't eat much last night. Did you think I didn't notice?"

"Wasn't hungry," he murmured.

"You're always hungry," she said, smiling. "Don't lie, I've seen how much you can eat. You were just thinking too much. Haven't you heard that's bad for you?" She picked a piece of chicken out of the container and flicked it playfully against his nose; he could feel the slick of sauce of his skin and grinned despite himself, something hot and bright flaring in his chest. He plucked the food from her grip, wolfing it down in one go. God, he _was_ hungry.

"I'll try to do less of it in the future," he said. "Maybe you can do the thinking for both of us, huh?"

"Well, I can try." She watched him attack the rest of the food with a tender, affectionate look on her face. He remembered how Gwen had always smiled at the smallest things, as if they'd had the power to complete her. Even now, in the middle of the mess of their lives, she could find a way to sit in his tatty shirt-turned-nightdress and just _smile_ at him eating, and wouldn't it be wonderful to have just a little of her easy faith in the world? Just a little.

"You don't have to be strong for me, you know," she said.

"Huh?" He swallowed down a mouthful of food.

"Strong," she repeated. "You don't have to be strong for me. I know you're trying to protect me—and it sounds like there are definitely things I need to be protected from—but I'm not helpless. I can be strong too. Maybe not in the same way, but it'll take more than magic to find Arthur, won't it?" She smiled. "Besides, if I leave it to you we'll hide in here forever, and then we'll lose our jobs for sure. I don't think your boss is going to believe you're sick forever."

"Uh, right." He shrugged, sheepish. He really hadn't considered the practicalities. Old memories and magic had made him forget temporarily that he was still living Tom's life, and to some extent still had Tom's concerns: the rent; the job. "I'm not very good at planning," Merlin said, a helpless little smile on his face.

"I know," Gwen said agreeably. She touched her fingers to his hair, tousling it a little. He squirmed away, ducking his head, still smiling. "That's why you have me."

Then she snatched some of the food straight out of the container and popped into her mouth, a pleased look on her face. Merlin followed the movement of her hand with his eyes, his gaze fixing on Gwen's crossed legs.

"Um," he said.

"What?"

Merlin debated saying nothing and then thought, well—what the hell.

"My shirt. That you're wearing. Uh, it's—going up."

Gwen looked down. Looked up. Very studiously avoided tugging down the hem.

"I've seen me wear shorter things in this life," she said, as if that wasn't a strange thing to say all. _This life._ "So it shouldn't bother me, right? I mean—unless it bothers you—"

"Me? No, it doesn't bother me," Merlin said, wondering if he could resist laughing long enough for Gwen to turn purple from blushing. "Do you remember the time you—well, Win—wore that bikini under…?"

"Under the sheer dress? I remember. It was very… uh, _modern_." Silence. Gwen jumped to her feet. "I think I'm going to get changed," she announced, and ran into the bedroom.

Merlin couldn't even hold his laughter until she'd shut the door. He buried his face into a pillow, his shoulders shaking violently.

"I can hear you!" yelled Gwen. But even through her embarrassment she was laughing, and that was when Merlin _really_ knew they were both going to be just fine.

* * *

It was mid-afternoon when a woman stepped off a bus onto a street she'd never visited before. She clutched her bus ticket in her hands, smoothing her thumb over the tiny slip of crinkly, crumpled paper. Her fingers trembled and her legs shook like live wires. Inside her head--

(_pendragonemryspendragon_)

--thoughts tumbled over one another like slippery eels.

She'd always been practical. Cool and sharp-witted and eminently logical. But now she was a wreck inside and out, strung out on bad dreams and caffeine and something that felt like a strong kick of insanity. A distant part of her mind was appalled by the state she was in. She'd always worked so hard to immaculately perfect, after all, and was this what her life's hard work had really been reduced to?

Her hair was a snarl, but she'd tied it back to conceal the worst of the damage. She was also wearing sunglasses. In the morning when she'd looked in the mirror her eyes had been laced with a spider's web of bloodshot veins, as ugly and knotted as her dreams. So she'd put on the glasses. She was determined to keep them on. She was also determined not to collapse (_again_).

People had always called her ambitious.

The house she'd seen in her vision was so nondescript, so _normal_ that it made her teeth ache. It had all the normal trappings: wooden fence, shrubbery, a little stretch of green lawn and even some potted plants. There was a little boy playing on a child's scooter in the garden, but he stopped when he saw her and stared up at her face with curious eyes. The woman stared right back. Usually she liked children, but today she wasn't sure she even liked herself, no matter anyone else.

"Is your mother home?" she asked. Her voice felt strange and heavy in her mouth.

The child didn't move; just kept blinking up at her, its mouth agape. Behind it, the front door opened.

There, in the doorway, stood Nimueh. She smiled.

"Don't mind him," she said, voice tinged with exasperated affection. "Come inside. I've got some lunch ready, if you'd like to share."

The woman nodded and unlatched the gate. When she walked up the path the Nimueh took hold of her hands, twining their fingers together. There was a familiar current between them. Memories unraveled.

"You think you're going mad." It wasn't a question.

"I remember being someone else," said the woman, her voice only shaking a little. "If that isn't madness, I don't know what is." She tugged free, feeling cold, and buried her face in her hands, wondering if she was going to really embarrass herself and, God forbid, start _crying_. "It doesn't make any fucking sense."

"It will," Nimueh promised. "It will, if you let me help you."

They stepped inside. The door closed with a muffled snick.

Together they stood in the muffled quiet. The woman tried desperately to fit her two sets of memories—of a Nimueh in her dreams, who'd curled magic in her fingers and died under lightning, and of _this_ woman with her little house and her son, who'd helped her after she'd collapsed on the train—together, and found that she couldn't. She leaned back against the door, breathing out a frustrated sigh.

Nimueh watched her.

"If it helps, people call me Mary these days," she said lightly. She took off the woman's sunglasses—touched the pained frown creased into her brow. "What do they call you?" she asked, smoothing the younger woman's hair from her sweat-slick brow.

The woman thought, _Your weren't this nice to me once._ But the thought (_memory_) was swallowed up by a wave of gratitude.

At least she wasn't alone.

"Nina," said Morgana. "They call me Nina."


End file.
